


Lessons in semantics

by StealingPennies



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StealingPennies/pseuds/StealingPennies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cracky one-shot. Lister's fine with doing *it* with Rimmer. He's just not sure what *it* is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons in semantics

It was the in-between times that were hardest to deal with. The late nights and the early mornings where nothing was quite set and the mind caught at shadows twisting and turning them into new realities. Days were easy. It was Smeghead and Goit and no quarter asked or given. Nights were –

Nights were –

Lister’s mind stalled unable to go further with this thought. He shook his head causing his dreadlocks to fly from side to side hitting him lightly on either cheek, and took a run up to the sentence. The days were easy. The nights were –

Krrrrych. 

Once again his mental gears crashed, stuttered and screeched to a halt.

What were the nights? He wished he could ask someone else for the answer but that would mean coming up some meaningful way to ask the question. For some time he and Rimmer had been—. Had been—

Well, you know.

It was difficult to remember exactly when **it** had first started. He could ask Rimmer but that would mean putting the whole scene into words. And doing that would mean admitting that it was happening. First step, into **it** not happening. The thought caused a dull stabbing pain in the pit of his stomach – as if he had eaten a bad curry and was about to fall prey to a massive attack of gut rot.

Smegging hell. 

Once Lister had left a inch of milk in the bottom of a mug just for the interest of watching what happened. Day by day the milk curdled and split changing into a kind of runny yoghurt before Kryten had swept in with a decomtamination unit and emptied the whole experiment into a lead-lined garbage pod. Milk to yoghurt and he didn’t know when or how or why. **It** was a mystery.

On the other hand, he could remember the first time perfectly. They’d narrowly escaped death – or re-death in Rimmer’s case – from a ravening hoard of space criminals intent on stealing the Dwarf to escape from a prison ship. The fact that both the ship and the criminals were ghosts and therefore without existence in reality, according to Holly, did not seem to greatly deter their attackers. Eventually Holly had performed some complicated equation along the lines of unreality squared to the power of something or other equals blah something blah blah, and both vessel and felons had disappeared. But not before the crew of Red Dwarf had gone through substantial supplies of clean underwear in their attempts to avoid capture. 

Lister had always been afraid of ghosts - thin, insubstantial wisps of matter or not. Ghosts were the things that came out of your wardrobe at night and grabbed you by the goollies; creatures of darkness that you laughed at in daytime and hid from under the covers at night. Lister had closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his chest to still the shivers. He dreamt of the thin hooked hand of the leader of the prisoners, its cold steel whispering along his neck and woke up to screams that were not his own. 

Outside there was the rattle of metal and a thin, unidentifiable humming noise. 

Lister moved to Rimmer’s bunk and clapped a hand over the hologram’s mouth to silence it, momentarily surprised that no air pushed against his palm. The hologram went rigid under his touch before gradually relaxing. He and Rimmer huddled under the thin standard issue blankets breathing in mutually terrified silence. Not wanting to think about what might be outside Lister found his concentration narrowed to the space of the bunk and their two bodies closely entwined. The skin next to him was warm and firm and the holographic heart hammered against Lister’s own flesh and blood one. 

“Is the door locked?” whispered Lister. His mouth brushed against the hologram’s short hair. The strands tickled and he shook his head succeeding only in brushing more of the wavy mass against his lips. He felt Rimmer nod in response.

Not exactly the start of a great seduction. There was no champagne and no roses such as he sometimes fantasised about presenting Kochanski. 

It didn’t take much – a few clumsy movements, an inadvertent shift and Rimmer’s thigh pressing against the hard bones of his hip. Heck. It had been so long. Three million years, man. No surprise that even Arnold J Rimmer was a turn on. Might has well enjoy a little death before meeting the big one head on. And Rimmer, poor bastard, huddling with Lister had probably made it up to number two on his significant encounters list. Ghosts or no. The clanking continued masking the turbulent breathing and the long gasps of release. 

Silence. Then Kryten shouting. “No need to worry, Mr Lister. I’ve cleaned up all that nasty ectoplasm outside your quarters. You won’t slip on anything green and slimy on your way into breakfast.” This was followed by a laugh. The kind that marked Kryten preparing to tell one of his non-jokes. “As long as you don’t sneeze that is.” More mechanoid laughter followed, getting softer as Kryten had moved futher away from the door. 

That was the first time.

Except it hadn’t stopped. There was the second time. And the third. And the fourth. And so many nights after. And he couldn’t ask about it, talk about it, because throughout the time they were together neither said a word. It was as if as long as whole act was performed in silence – well, except for the gasps and groans of pleasure – it wasn’t really happening. 

Denial, thy names are Lister and Rimmer.

Once, just once, Lister had fallen asleep after, lulled by this night version of Rimmer, sated, with the harsh lines and angles all smoothed and rounded. Morning arrived with a harsh poke and gimlet eyes boring into him demanding to know what Lister thought he was doing in Rimmer’s bed.

“Got drunk, lost my way back from the toilet,” he offered, lamely.

“Well, don’t do it again.” Rimmer had turned his back and was smoothing down his ruffled hair. How could a hologram get ruffled? 

“Er, no. No way!” said Lister, clambering hurriedly out of the lower bunk, and scambling into the clothes he had dropped on the floor before going to bed. 

Day Rimmer was one giant pain in the arse. After a few hours in his company, Lister often longed to grab hold of one of Kryten’s mops and demonstrate the literal meaning of the term anal-retentive. Either that or beat his holographic companion with a stick until all the affectation and artifice was whacked out and, and –

Whoa.

Hold that thought.

So he and Rimmer were, you know, doing it. Lister thought he might be able to cope better if he could come up with some acceptable term. 

Shagging. Making out. Doing the horizontal hokey cokey. The tailbone tanga. The roommate rumba. Nope. All wrong. Screwing. They were certainly screwing each other up, one way or anther. But that wasn’t right either. 

Clearly some subtlety was called for. He sought out Kryten for help. 

“Kryten, how many words do you now for doing it?”

“It, Mr Lister?” 

The two were enjoying a drink in the bar. Well, Lister was enjoying his customary succession of lagers and Kryten was getting high on the alcohol vapour in the air around their table.

“Yeah, **it**.” He accompanied the word with a nudge and a wink. 

“Ah.” Kryten smiled and winked back, to prove he was a mechanoid of the world. 

“So?” pressed Lister.

“1024.”

Lister felt his mouth drop open.

“My languages are not as good as they might be,” apologised Kryten, mistaking the gesture. 

“Get away.” Lister gulped down half a pint of lager. His own tally had come to something like 10. 

“Why do you want to know?” 

“Rude scrabble,” said Lister, who had prepared his reply. “I want to beat that smeghead, Rimmer. Give me all you’ve got in English.”

“Very well.” Kryten took a deep, if unnecessary, breath, “Coition, coitus, copulation, intercourse, partner, pairing, fucking, tupping, rogering, mating –“

The list went on for twenty minutes. It wasn’t often that Lister was struck dumb but Kryten had managed it. He hadn’t even had the strength to lift his beer to his lips while listening. It was a virtuoso performance. When Kryten stopped speaking a silence hung in the room.

“Pardon my language, Mr Lister,” apologised Kryten. “You did ask.” Incredibly he seemed to be blushing.

“No need, Kryten. That was absol-smegin-lutely incredible.” 

Kryten beamed. “Thank you Mr Lister. And may I say I hope you nail Mr Rimmer’s arse.” 

“Er, yeah. Right,” was all Lister could manage. “Don’t mention it to Rimmer though.”

“Mum’s the word,” agreed Kryten with a finger to his lips.

Not Mum.

He had his word, though. They were tupping. Put like that it sounded quite respectable. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Tupping. Nothing to get worked up about. In fact, he was feeling a little hungry now. Nine o clock. A least three hours. Rimmer would be studying now, lips pursed in that intensely annoying way. A few more drinks, and then it would be time for tupper.


End file.
